It's a Mythological Thing
by coffeelatte
Summary: Another classic 'Draco's a veela and Harry's his mate' fic - Draco's angry, insecure and in denial; Harry's glorious, tanned, and baffled; Lucius is uncomfortable, and Narcissa is hysterical. They'll work it out.


**A/N:** My second Harry Potter fic – more specifically, glorious!Harry and veela!Draco. Expect much fluff, drama, angst and disgusting sweetness in this fic, full of twisted clichés and heartwrenching tears from our favorite boys! (How can any sane HPDM loving ff author _not_ write at least one veela fic?) Read and review – tell me what you think! C:

**Disclaimer**: I do not own PoT.

* * *

Following the second wizarding war, all then-seventh years returned for an 'eighth,' or rather, repeated seventh year, to finish their schooling at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As much as the war had impacted the lives of perhaps every single individual attending Hogwarts, in a strange way, things resumed as, well, _normal._ The Great Hall was painstakingly rebuilt, other walls of Hogwarts magically refurbished, and for the most part, students resumed their lives in an orderly fashion.

For many, it was as though the war had never happened at all – merely a temporary lapse in the average normalcy of their lifespans. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism, some of the teachers wondered – others still simply responded with a "They're children – still malleable, still eager to accept changes. They were born with all the tools necessary to forgive and forget, to adapt to change."

The Slytherins seemed even haughtier, as though their loss in the war compelled them to impress their peers with the fact that their loss most certainly did not mean that they were _weak_. The Gryffindors, well – you know the Gryffindors, noble lot of them, with the ever-glorious Harry Potter leading the Golden Trio. Ravenclaws sank back furiously into their schoolwork, with the only thing being regretted as the time lost during the war and the year setback they suffered in their academic endeavors. Hufflepuffs seemed determined to throw themselves back into all of Hogwarts, eager to mend the broken bridges between certain friends that had, as they saw, occurred due to the war.

In this way, life went on.

Of course – a war had just occurred. Things weren't _all_ back to the way they were.

One teeny tiny _itsy bitsy_ detail had changed; oh, how it had changed.

Draco Malfoy – prince of the Slytherins, parents exonerated and the Malfoy fortune larger than ever – and Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived, the Golden Boy of the wizarding realm – were dating. Not that anyone knew; the two boys weren't exactly eager, per say, to surprise the wizarding realm with yet another 'catastrophe.'

Ron Weasley was still feeling sick at the knowledge, even after all these months. Hermione? Well, she couldn't have been happier for her best friend's eminent happiness.

* * *

Pale fingers, nimble and thin, slipped the silver-green tie smoothly through the loops and pulled – the knot formed neatly into place at the nape of a slender, unmarred neck. Pale, wispy blond locks fell artfully about a pointed chin, brushing against high cheekbones and delicate skin; grey eyes glanced listlessly at the still-slumbering figure in bed.

Draco checked the time – ah, right. It was still early enough to slip out unbidden by the rest of the sleeping Gryffindor twats. He reached on the bedside table for his silver watch, when a tanned hand shot out to wrap loosely around his wrist.

Eyes widened and shot to the face emerging between pillows, grey meeting bottle green. Draco's heart fluttered a little into his throat, only to leap about frantically when Harry's lips curved into a devilish smile. "Hey," he managed to whisper, heart in his throat.

Harry grunted back a reply, crushing his face to the white pillow once more. "Mrrf nfff," Draco heard, and brows furrowed in slight amusement; Harry had never been much of a morning person.

"Rephrase that in proper English, please," Draco murmured coolly, shaking Harry's hand from his wrist, and slipping on his watch with a sound click.

"Leaving so soon?" Harry mumbled, this time, face held just enough at a distance from the bed for his voice to be intelligible.

Draco nodded sharply.

"What, Potter – did you expect a fluffy morning cuddle?" Draco sneered. His hear beat a little faster in his chest.

Harry laughed in response; a short, derisive snort.

Draco's heart crashed back into his stomach.

"Of course not," Harry responded tonelessly, matter-of-factly. "Wouldn't want to get all mushy over this _arrangement_ of ours."

Draco paused for a moment, before flaring into action, another nod on his chin. "Right. I-"

He cut off whatever he'd been about to say, and hurried out the room. Harry waited in his bed, eyes now fully wide awake and breath held, until he heard the quiet creaking as the portrait downstairs closed shut and he was sure Draco was long gone.

He buried his face into his pillow, muffling a weary groan.

Silly, stupid, idiotic Harry, he chanted in his head. What had he been expecting?

* * *

Draco's well-polished shoes rang clearly against the cobblestone flooring, grey eyes lidded and staring mutedly at the floor as he walked. He traced idle patterns on the floor as he walked, fingers coming to wring at the hem of his white shirt-

Upon reaching the entrance to the dungeons, he paused. He leaned against the cold, damp wall, eyes closing out of view, shoulders drooping slightly, a sigh passing his lips. Why had he ever agreed to such a _stupid_ 'arrangement' with Harry bleeding Potter, of all people?

Harry had approached him, nearly a year ago, with an extended hand and that slightly crooked smile of his, green eyes shining brilliantly behind too-old glasses. Let's be friends, he'd said – the war was over, and it was time to put the silliness behind them. Draco's first instinct had been to sneer and walk away – but Pansy offered a sharp brow that seemed to insinuate that he'd be an _idiot_ to refuse the hand of the Saviour.

Slytherins valued pride and hating Gryffindors – but they valued power plays and tacticians, more. With a begrudging glare, he'd slapped his hand in Potter's.

And after that, as strange as it was, Potter seemed to stumble after him with that foolish smile of his, offering to study for classes with him (as if Draco needed the idiot's help in grades), asking to play a round of Quidditch, pondering about Draco's life and what he liked and what he disliked. Draco resisted, at first, but-

It was Harry _bleeding_ Potter, alright? Even Draco fell, crippled, to the boy's charms.

The two fell rapidly, down, down, into some twisted form of friendship and camaraderie, because as it turned out – they weren't all that different, after all. Two boys landed with expectations bigger than the world before their second birthday, even; two boys stumbling along, trying to forget the travesty of just a year prior.

Six months fast forward – and Draco didn't know how (but the sheer amount of butterbeers they'd had probably had something to do with it), but Harry's lips were on his, and then Draco was on _Harry_, and then they were-

-well, they were what they were now.

A _convenient_ relationship, one of them had termed, stiffly, and it had stuck. Because Draco, Draco had been desperate to grab onto any sort of possible explanation for his hanky panky with the Golden Boy that _didn't_ involve his actual feelings.

And it seemed that for Harry, no feelings had ever been involved, anyway.

So it had worked out, for a while.

Until Draco started to miss the warmth he was leaving when he left in the mornings, until he wanted Harry's hand to linger against his for a little while longer, until he was staring after Harry like some adoring little puppy.

Until even Pansy fucking Parkinson noticed.

"Get your act together, Draco," she'd murmured coolly to him one morning, sipping neatly at her tea, talking as though it were the usual terms of business they were discussing. "It's unbecoming of a Slytherin – and moreso of a Malfoy. You were an idiot to go along with this stupidity to begin with; the least you could do is carry it out in a smart fashion."

"Pining isn't a pretty color on you, darling."

Raking a tired hand through his blonde locks, Draco trudged inside the Slytherin dorms.

* * *

A week later, Harry was off to Durmstrang for a stay of two weeks; the Gryffindor team, as last year's Cup winner, was chosen to play against the Durmstrang Quidditch team in a set of friendly intra-school matches. Truth be told, he was quite excited – of course, he lamented not seeing Draco for two weeks, but-

-perhaps it was a good thing, he figured.

When he'd first approached Draco, he'd only been infatuated with the white blonde hair and delicate, gorgeous features of the other male – the Harry of _that_ time would most likely have been more than happy at their current agreement. But the Harry of now – the Harry of now, that knew of Draco's insecurities, of his caring side, of his loyalty, of his capriciousness, the Harry that _knew Draco_-

-well, the Harry of now was irrevocably in love with Draco Malfoy, damned good looks or not. And he'd decided that he wasn't happy, at all, with their current situation.

He'd take the two weeks to gather himself, and when he came back…he'd tell Draco.

With that determination, and one last wave at Draco, despite the churning insides of his that wanted to reach out, and fold the shorter male into his arms tightly, Harry was off.

Just ten days after waving faintheartedly at Harry's departing form, Draco fell violently ill. To be more accurate, he'd been feeling unhealthy for a while, actually, starting a little after Harry had left.

Now, lying in a private ward of the Hospital Wing, Draco's pallor had taken an unhealthy shade, deathly pale to the point where even his usually-red lips were dimmed to a sickly pink. His golden hair rested against his skin in flaxen locks and his frail chest rose and dipped weakly with the rhythm of his shallow breathing.

Another wave of sickness passed, and his expression scrunched up in pain.

He felt dizzy, even after having food magically transported into his stomach, even after drinking _plenty_ of fluids, even after twenty straight hours of sleep. Draco didn't know why, and he was terrified at it all; some nights, he dreamt that the Dark Lord had returned, hissing for Draco's return to his side.

Draco shuddered.

He missed Harry.

* * *

Some mornings, when he awoke blearily, lids barely able to flutter open, he could hear the hushed murmurs of Madame Pomfrey and Headmaster Dumbledore and Severus.

"You can't be serious," he heard Severus's angry voice, shrill above the others.

"Now now, Severus, Poppy says she believes so, and she's quite experienced in this field-" Dumbledore's voice, quiet and appeasing.

"That's absurd!" Severus's voice snapped right back. "The boy's father will be here soon – _he'll_ confirm it."

That's all Draco heard, before drifting back into a fitful sleep.

On the eleventh day, when he awoke, it was to the soft hand of his mother, raking through his thin locks, soft murmurs of her soothing voice. "Oh, my poor boy, my little darling dragon…" she sighed when she saw Draco's lids flutter open, confusion and surprise mirrored in their depths. "How are you, my darling?"

Draco's lips moved, but he found himself unable to find a voice in his throat. It felt scratchy, and dry, and all that escaped his lips was a croak.

Another pale hand offered him a cool glass of water, which he drank when it was brought to his lips. As the liquid slid down his throat, he found the aching soothed; Draco tried again: "Mo…ther."

"Good – you can talk."

At the new voice, Draco's eyes flitted to the side, whereupon he found his father, standing in a stiff fur-lined coat, a polished walking stick in hand. "Father?"

"Oh, darling – we're so sorry; we didn't think the gene would kick in until you'd graduated, at the very least," Narcissa continued with a long-suffering sigh, long white locks draped elegantly over one thin shoulder.

"Narcissa, please. Just let him rest for a few more hours, now; the potion hasn't had enough time to take effect."

Draco saw his mother nod a consent, and though he wanted to ask _what gene_, he found himself drifting off to sleep, again.

* * *

"…and you didn't see fit to tell me?"

Draco awoke next to the sound of Severus's angry voice.

"Well, we ourselves weren't exactly sure whether or not the gene would manifest in Draco, either," Narcissa's voice, cool as ever, responded softly.

"Nor did we think that he would have found a mate so fast, either," Lucius's voice flitted into the fray next, clearly unhappy. "Children these days." Lucius clicked his tongue.

And finally, _finally_, Draco found enough energy to push himself up, until he was seated against the cushioned headboard of the bed. A blinding bright light entered his vision from the side wall's window, white drapes concealing a small area from the rest of the ward.

"A mate? What?" he managed to murmur, just loudly enough for the four adults in the room – his parents, Severus and Dumbledore – to turn around.

Narcissa's eyes filled with tears as she floated to her son, gathering his face in her cool, soft hands. "Oh, my little baby," she cooed with relief. Draco felt a heavier hand next, patting lightly against his head – Lucius.

"What's wrong with me? Am I sick?" Draco persisted, confusion – and dread – lingering in his eyes.

Lucius cleared his throat uncomfortably. When Draco's eyes flitted to the disapproving figure of Severus, he found harsh accusation in his godfather's eyes, directed towards Lucius. Dumbledore only seemed mildly reserved about it all.

"What is it!" Draco demanded, an exasperated tone entering his voice.

He figured, after days of being bedridden without a seeming possible cause, he had a _right to know_ what was going on-

"Well, son. It, ah – it seems as though you've inherited the veela genes from your mother's side."

Draco promptly fell back into unconsciousness once more.


End file.
